


Oh Christmas Lights, Keep Shining On

by ciaconnaa



Series: 12 Days of Irondad & Spideyson Christmas [12]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Christmas, Gen, I killed aunt may I am so sorry, found families tropes are my SHIT, peter is sad but tony is there for Our Boi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-25 13:31:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17122307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ciaconnaa/pseuds/ciaconnaa
Summary: Tony isn’t one to hash out the differences between a house and a home. Those kinds of cheesy sayings are better left to soccer moms and Hallmark cards. But standing in the middle of Peter’s kitchen with his sleeves all sudsy, surrounded by pictures, evidence, and history of a house well lived in, Tony can easily define that this is not a house, it's a home. Peter’s home.There’s no way he can take Peter away from his home for Christmas. Not when he doesn't have his aunt anymore.He makes a decision. A split decision, really. All the details explode in his head like a supernova, like they always do, but it’s a plan. And he’s gonna stick to it.or;Tony, Peter, and what it means to be a family.





	Oh Christmas Lights, Keep Shining On

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iron_spider](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iron_spider/gifts).



> and a special shoutout to tempestaurora who listened to me talk about this fic for like two weeks. *spiderman pointing meme* same wavelength!

**December 1st , 2018**

There's someone playing the harp in the hospital.

Tony watches her from the uncomfortable bench in the hallway. She plays well, something he can admit even though it’s all the holiday music he isn’t fond of. People walk past her like they can’t hear her, faces blank and ghost like, some with dried tears on their cheeks. But occasionally, when a song is over, someone will whisper something to her like “beautiful” or “nice” or even “thank you.” The harpist will give a small smile and then she’ll play the next song, all by memory.

Part of him thinks it’s inappropriate. There are sick people here. There are people dying here. People already dead. May Parker - the last living family Peter Parker _had -_ isn’t even cold yet and there’s a harpist playing Christmas music in the lobby. Part of him wants to snap at her, tell her to _shut up,_ but that’s not fair to her, or to the people even passing by. There someone playing the harp in the hospital and she’s grabbing the attention of the sick, the wounded, the _worried,_ and calming them, if even for a moment.

Part of him knows his uneasy heart is only in check because there's someone playing the harp in the hospital.

She’s in the middle of The First Noel when a pair of familiar sneakers squeak across the tile floor. Without a word, Peter Parker squeezes himself next to him and immediately rests his cheek on Tony’s shoulder. He feels the kid take a shuddering breath before the fabric of his dress shirt becomes damp with silent tears.

Tony doesn’t know what the right thing to say is, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t try.

He shifts slightly, trying to face him, but Peter doesn’t lift his head. He lets himself fall into Tony, runny nose pressed into his chest. Tony lays a hand on the top of his head.

“I got you, kid.”

Peter moves again, arms tightening around his chest in a hug.

_We’re not there yet,_ Tony once said.

He’ll never say that again.

“I’m here.”

 

* * *

 

Peter falls asleep on him.

Their position on the cheaply upholstered bench puts Tony’s bad arm to sleep, but he doesn’t dare move. When the doctor comes by to talk to him, he simply holds a finger to his lips. Voices never go above a whisper. When the social workers and lawyers come by with papers for him to sign, the scratch of the pen against the clipboard is the only thing heard bouncing off the sterile white walls. Everything, legally, gets taken care of while Peter is asleep.  It’s times like these where Tony is extra thankful his money can buy him time and bend the rules.

The hours tick by. Midnight comes and goes. The harpist, for whatever reason, stays and keeps playing.

Around half past one, he pull out his phone, careful not to jostle Peter, and shoots Pepper a text:

 

_Got the kid. Don’t know when I’ll be back._

 

He turns his phone on _do not disturb_ and shoves it back in his jacket pocket, but not before stealing a glance at the kid: he looks smaller than usual, paler too. If it wasn’t for the grip he had on his waist earlier, Tony might mistake him for a porcelain doll. He’s looks worse for wear, even in sleep, and Tony is _terrified_ that he’ll shatter the moment he wakes up.

The harp music fades and Tony looks to the side to find the harpist looking at him, smile tight and forced.

It’s late. He has no idea why the harpist is still here. He wants to tell her to go home, not out of malice, but out of _care._ Someone should escape this hell hole that is a hospital. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t say anything at all.

Tony returns her smile, no matter how painful and forced it must look, before her eyes flicker back to the harp and she starts playing another song.

He tilts back, head knocking against the wall, and falls asleep to the sound of music.

 

* * *

 

**December 2nd, 2018**

“Mr. Stark.”

Tony comes to with a bit of a jolt, eyes wide, before he remembers where he is and what has happened. The feeling in his left arm is back, the muscles a little sore from lack of circulation, and Peter Parker is sitting up beside him. The kid’s hand loosely grips at Tony’s sleeve.

“Hey, Pete.” He scrubs both hands over his face and prays for coffee, even the crappy hospital kind. He wants it so bad he thinks he can _smell it._

But then it appears. Peter leans over the side of the bench and produces a cup of hot coffee, and it’s not even the crappy kind. It’s Starbucks, paper cup bright red and covered in snowflakes, and Tony takes it graciously. He notes the sharpie markings on the side of the cup. It’s got Tony’s name. Americano checked off. It’s what he always gets on the off chance he gets coffee when he’s out. How Peter knows that, he isn’t sure.

He takes a sip and fights a sigh of delight. “Did you get something?” Tony asks, his voice still thick with sleep, when he notices there isn’t a second cup.

Peter shakes his head.

“You don’t want anything?” Another shake of the head. “You sure?” A nod.

“The nurse said we could leave.” He tugs rubs both his arms like he’s cold before he starts to scratch at one of his forearms. The kid’s antsy, he can tell. “She said you took care of everything while I was asleep?”

“Yeah,” Tony rushes to explain, “I signed a temporary guardianship. You know what that is?” He wants to bite his tongue clear off for that one, because the Peter before him is devastated and completely _spent,_ but he’s not an idiot. But luckily and in typical Peter fashion, the kid takes no offense and simply nods for Tony to continue. “I didn’t want to make any big decisions so quickly, but I figured since you called me….” he trails off, hiding his insecurities underneath a loud sip of his Americano. “That okay?”

Peter nods. “Thank you.”

“We can do whatever you want,” Tony goes on. “If you want to stay with me, you’re more than welcome. For as long as you want. And if you want to stay with someone else, we can try and work that out, too. But…” he pauses, looking around the hospital. It’s filled with more people, and the harpist is long gone. He kinda misses her. “But, uh, for now -”

“I want to stay with you,” Peter says, head falling back to Tony’s shoulder. He thinks he’s about to go back to sleep when he mumbles, “Can we go?”

Wordlessly, Tony stands up, forcing Peter off his shoulder. His knees crack, a sign of his age, and he has to pop his neck, a sign of a terrible night, before he turns sharply on his heels and hauls Peter to his feet.

“C’mon, bud,” he says, hand on his shoulder, and leads him out of the hospital with hopes that he never _ever_ has to come back.

 

* * *

 

The Parker’s apartment is eerily quiet.

Tony follows Peter inside with caution, like he’s walking into a crime scene. It’s been a long time since he’s been here, but everything looks the same, if a little...dustier. Peter had mentioned he and May had been busy the last few weeks, leaving the apartment a little on the messy side. It’s not something Tony’s necessarily used to _._ Mess, well, sure. When you look up the word “Mess” in the dictionary, Tony’s picture is right there beside it. But there’s unfolded blankets, and unwashed, mismatched mugs in the sink, and... _pictures._ Tony never noticed the pictures the first time around, but they’re there. May. Peter. Ben. They clutter the wall space and remind Tony that this isn’t a _house_ it’s a _home_ and -

He stands in the threshold with a strong feeling that he simply doesn’t belong.

There’s a soft clicking of the door and Tony snaps out of it. He blinks rapidly and looks around, but Peter’s gone. Bathroom, his room, he isn’t sure, but he figures the kid can use a few minutes to himself. So he heads to the kitchenette, opens the fridge, and tries to make a plan.

Eggs. Milk. Cheese. Cinnamon bread with the stupid little raisins in it. Some passable spinach. That’s a meal. That’s a deconstructed omelette and some toast. Tony can make an omelette. He made Pepper one once. Surely he can replicate the results, even if all there is a sad red skillet with scratch marks galore.

So he cooks, and of course his plan fails. The omelette falls apart and becomes scrambled eggs. The air fills with the smell of burning bread and Tony remembers the toast seconds before it pops out of the toaster, overdone. But it’s not ruined. The eggs are edible. Toast is technically toast no matter how charred it gets. He’s still made a meal.

Tony looks down the hall and sees Peter is still gone.

He plates the food on some old plastic _frisbee_ the Parkers' call dinnerware and heads down the hall, napkins and a fork pinched between two fingers. The bathroom door is open. Peter’s room is empty. That just leaves-

Peter’s asleep in May’s bed.

Her room is nothing special: coral colored comforter, old wooden dresser, two mismatched side tables straight from some overpriced flea market. But it’s May Parker’s room alright. She’s laid all five pairs of her glasses on top of her dresser, next to some inexpensive jewelry. There’s pictures on the wall, ranging from photographs to straight up children’s drawings, framed proudly like Rembrandts. There’s a wedding photo that catches his eye, a renewal it would seem, judging by the young looking Peter Parker smiling in the corner.

Tony steps over a few strewn clothing items and sits on the edge of the bed beside Peter. “Hey, bud.” He sets the plate on the side table and begins to shake Peter awake as gently as he can. “I made you something to eat. You hungry?”

“No,” Peter says immediately, making Tony think that he wasn’t actually asleep to begin with. Just trying. “But…” he leans up, comforter sliding down into his lap, and takes the plate off the side table. “I’ll still eat.”

Tony watches as Peter goes for the eggs first, stabbing them with the fork a few times before taking a bite. “Didn’t know you cooked.”

“On good days,” he admits, nodding to the toast. “This might not be one of them, if I’m being honest. Exhibit A. Didn’t check the toaster settings. Sorry.”

Peter shakes his head and picks up the toast, taking a bite; he tries and fails to catch the crumbs with his other hand. “It’s set like that on purpose. I like it burnt.”

“That’s disgusting. Does that mean you’re to blame for the criminal cinnamon raisin bread as well?”

“No. That was for May.”

And just like that, with the simple mention of her name, Tony doesn’t know what to say.

Realistically, he can’t keep stalling out like this every time he’s bombarded with an unfamiliar feeling that comes with looking after a child in mourning. But he just doesn’t know what to do. Tony didn’t grow up in the cute New York apartment with the house plants, pictures, and creaky floorboards. And he doesn’t know what it feels like to have all that ripped away, either. Tony lost his parents. He dealt with that. But he’s never lost an Aunt May before. He just doesn’t know what to do.

Judging by how Peter gives up halfway through his eggs to stare at the empty space beside them on the bed, Tony figures the kid doesn’t either.

They’ll have to figure it out together.

“I got it, Pete.” Tony’s voice is barely a whisper when he takes the plate from his hand. Immediately, Peter sinks back into the bed, wrapping the comforter back around him like a cocoon.

“I know we have to leave soon.” Peter’s voice if muffled by the blankets. “But….can we just stay for a bit? Please?”

Tony’s heart breaks, just a little.

“Take all the time you need, kid. We’ll go when you’re ready.”

Peter doesn’t stir after that.

Tony hovers a few minutes, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest from underneath the comforter, before he takes Peter’s fork and shovels some eggs into his mouth; all in all, not that bad, but he doesn’t blame the kid for not finishing them. He’s extra careful to make sure the fork doesn’t so much as clatter against the plastic frisbee as he gets off the bed.

He steps around a discarded sweater and a silk nightgown on his way out, narrowly missing the squeaky looking floorboards. Stepping on them probably won’t make a difference to Peter, but Tony still feels out of place in the house, and the silence seems sacred in a way he can’t understand.

Normally he’d just leave the dishes in the sink and get to them later, or just...throw them away if he was feeling _particularly_ lazy. But he washes them, forgoing the dishwasher entirely, if just to give himself something to do. After he dries the plate, he fishes his phone out of his pocket, the screen lighting up with an alarming alert:

 

_12 missed calls from The Missus_

 

Whoops.

He takes the phone off _do not disturb,_ hits call, and tucks the phone between his cheek and his shoulder. In all his hurry to get to the hospital, he’s forgotten his ear pieces and there’s no way he’s about to put this conversation on speaker. He’ll have to make do.

She picks up on the first ring. “Tony? Where are you? Is everything okay?”

“I’m at Peter’s place,” Tony grunts, squeezing an ungodly amount of dishwashing soap onto the skillet. Little too late does he realize his sleeves haven’t been rolled properly and they dip into the sudsy water. Bleh. Better that than his phone. “We slept at the hospital in the lobby….the kid, he didn’t want to leave and I -”

“It’s okay,” Pepper is quick to assure. “I understand. I just wanted to make sure you guys were warm and safe. Did he eat something?”

“I just finished making him an omelette.”

Pepper snorts. “About the only thing you can manage. But that’s good, that’s good…” she trails off a moment and Tony can hear some kind of shuffling in the background. She’s multitasking, just like he is. “Anyway, I cooked up a bunch of things: pasta, stir fry, some soup. I didn’t know what Peter would like, but it’s all in the fridge. I can also have Thai food delivered, he likes Thai right?”

He manages a fraction of a smile at the sound of Pepper’s worry-wort rant, but he zones out quickly when something on the fridge catches his eye.

A torn, yellow piece of paper with a key taped to it.

 

_Remember, there’s six boxes. SIX. Don’t take them all up at once, I don’t care if you’re super strong, not even God can make it up those stairs without tripping. Don’t drop the ornaments this year. Or you’re making one for every single one you break_

_Larb you <3 _

 

Pepper is still babbling in his ear as he yanks the key off with a sudsy hand, silently mouthing the words _Larb you_ to himself. It’s not a house key, Tony knows that much. It’s a storage key, it has to be. The Parkers’ Christmas decorations must be in basement storage.

Tony _hates_ this. Their life was moving along just fine. The food in the fridge is unspoiled. May’s clothes are on her bedroom floor. They made plans to put up _Christmas decorations._ And now everything is different.

It’s not fair.

He leaves the note, but pockets the key.

“...home?”

“Huh?” Tony realizes his mistake too late and sighs, rubbing his face with his bad arm; the damn thing is starting to twitch with all that’s going on. “I’m sorry honey, what did you say?”

“I asked when you were coming home.”

_Home._

Tony isn’t one to hash out the differences between a _house_ and a _home._ Those kinds of cheesy sayings are better left to soccer moms and Hallmark cards. But standing in the middle of Peter’s kitchen, with his sleeves all sudsy, surrounded by pictures, evidence, _history_ of a house well lived in, Tony can easily define that this is a _home._ Peter’s home.

Tony’s semi-new penthouse with the hospital white walls and marble tiles and the prized Rothko and the robots that don’t listen to what he says... _isn’t._

There’s no way he can take Peter away from his home for Christmas. Not after all this.

He makes a decision. A split decision, really. All the details explode in his head like a supernova, like they always do, but it’s a plan. And he’s gonna stick to it.

“Tony?”

“Sorry, but,” he finally answers. “I don’t think I’m gonna be back for awhile.”

Pepper knows him better than he knows himself sometimes. He wouldn’t be surprised if she can hear the gears turning in his head over the line. “....Define awhile.”

He swallows, his throat feeling tight. “....a good while.”

He’s impulsive. A tad neurotic. A couple other things that Rhodey would have no problem listing if he were here. Pepper knows all this. And she’s stood by him all these years despite it. She has to understand.

Silence. Static. And then,

“Okay,” she sighs. Tired, but accepting. “I love you. Don’t forget to call every once in a blue moon, got it?”

“Got it. Love you, too. Bye.”

He hangs up the phone, engulfed in the silence once more.

It’s not sacred, he understands that now. It’s a virus. An intruder. It does not belong. And the worst part is, it’s not like it’s a bad guy Tony can blow away with his blasters. It will exist for some time, Tony knows that. Because not everything can heal so quickly. But it _can_ heal.

And he’s going to stay and make sure of it.

 

* * *

 

**December 3rd, 2018**

He has a plan, but he has to put it on hold for a different kind of plan.

Tony has to plan May Parker’s funeral.

He’s been up pretty much all night, trying to get everything together. Peter stays in May’s room and doesn’t come out except maybe to wander to the bathroom, but Tony doesn’t pay much mind. The kid wants to be alone, and he can respect that. So he mulls through legal papers and hospital bills and talks to whoever he can despite the growing late night hours, until he finally passes out on the Parkers’ couch.

He wakes up to the sound of the phone ringing.

It’s not his phone though. It’s the Parkers’ landline. _Landline._ Tony can’t believe people still have those things. He stumbles to the kitchen,  glancing at May’s room to confirm that a Peter-sized lump is still buried under the comforter, and picks up the phone. He grimaces at the bulkiness pressed against his cheek. “Hello?”

“Ah….yes,” the woman on the other line says. “Ben Parker?”

Tony has to take a moment to confirm he still isn’t dreaming. He pinches his arm and it hurts, sure, but there’s still a crazy person on the other line that thinks she’s talking to a ghost. “Who is this?”

“Jenny, I’m a secretary here at Midtown High. I’m calling because Peter didn’t show up to school this morning.”

Tony swears under his breath. School. He had totally forgotten about _school._ “Uh, yeah, about that. You need to update your records.”

The rest of the conversation is awkward as he explains that no, he’s not Ben Parker. Ben Parker is not here anymore. No, May Parker isn’t here anymore, either. Yes, it’s sad. Very sad. Unbelievably, horribly, sad. Can Peter take his exams when he comes back for new year? Great, perfect. Thank you very much.

He promises to fax over the new paperwork to have everything ready and hangs up in a hurry without so much as a drop of his name. Peter doesn’t need that kind of attention right now. Maybe ever, if he can do something about that, but definitely not right now.

“Who was that?”

Tony whirls around to see Peter, still dressed in the clothes he came home in, rubbing wearily at his eye. He makes a spectacle of slapping the clunky phone back down on the receiver before he’s left to wipe his palms on the legs of his pants. As if that’ll squander the awkwardness around them.

“School,” Tony finally says, because Peter asked him a _question._ “You don’t have to go back this month. You can take your exams in January.”

“Oh,” Peter looks mildly surprised. “Thanks.”

Tony just nods before he glances at his night’s work, spread out on the coffee table. There are certain things concerning May that he was able to take care of on his own: May’s will, Peter’s funds, a phone call with their landlord, as well as an email to May’s boss, but the more _personal_ touches he’s left...well, untouched. When Tony’s parents died, several _someone elses_ took care of everything: the church, the casket, the font on the fucking gravestones. But the flowers...Rhodey sat him down and made him pick the flowers, at the very least.

His mom liked pink roses best. The funeral sucked, but the flowers...she would have liked the flowers.

He’s not sure what May liked.

“Hey, kid.”

Peter looks up after he drops two pieces of cinnamon raisin bread into the toaster. “Yeah?”

“What was May’s favorite flower?”

Panic flickers in his eyes. “Huh?”

“May’s favorite flower,” he repeats, softer, gentler this time. “Do you know what it was?”

Peter stares at him for long time; his mouth is parted slightly and he still wears the same dumbfounded expression on his face, even when the toast pops with a click and the smell of burnt bread wafts through the apartment.

“No,” he finally says. “I don’t.”

Tony watches as the Peter leaves the toast behind, grabs his coat, and walks out of the apartment.

There’s an urge to follow him, but Tony resists it on account of he has no idea what to say to the kid. He wants to tell him that it’s okay, he doesn’t have to know that about her, it doesn’t make him a bad nephew or mean that he didn’t love her. Tony knew what his mother’s favorite flower was simply because she bought them _all the time._ But he didn’t know her favorite color, her favorite song, the names of her friends, or anything little about her that made his mother…. _his mother._

Peter loved May. He made sure she packed a lunch to work, paid the water bill on time, and Tony caught him on more than one occasion making sure their fridge was stocked with her favorite ice cream. It didn’t matter that he doesn’t know her favorite flower.

But Tony knows the question still stung when he had no answer.

He grabs the toast out of the toaster and puts it on another frisbee before he starts to methodically pick out the raisins with one hand, the other reaching for his phone and making a call.

Rhodey picks up on the second ring. “Hey, man. How’s the kid?”

Tony doesn’t answer for a long time. He focuses on pulling the raisins out of the toast and Rhodey stays on the line, ever so patient with him. “I don’t think I ever thanked you.”

“You never do,” Rhodey deadpans, and Tony cracks a small grin. “Thanked me for what?”

“Mom and Dad’s funeral. You made me pick out the flowers.”

“I…” Rhodey hesitates. “...yeah?”

“You probably did a lot more than flowers, too.”

Rhodey doesn’t answer. He would never throw it in Tony’s face about what he did to get that funeral together because he’s _Rhodey._ They take care of each other, like best friends do.

“Thanks, Rhodey.”

“No thanks needed,” he says, and Tony’s heart swells. “I’ve got your back, man.”

They hang up and Tony finishes his deconstructed toast in silence until the front door opens ten minutes later. Peter’s got snow in his hair and his nose is bright red, pink and chapped fingers holding two cups of Starbucks coffee.

He hands the red cup to Tony. Americano. Just like last time.

“There’s this flower,” Peter says, taking a sip of his own drink. “Literally called a Mayflower. I asked her once if those were her favorite, and she told me no, because she wasn’t some predictable cheeseball.”

Tony nods.

“I never asked again. I didn’t think to. But last year, for Mother’s day, I happened to walk by this flower shop and there was this really pretty arrangement of flowers. Tulips. Pink ones and yellow ones and even these orange ones with red tips. They were really nice. I wanted her to have them. She liked them so much she pressed them in a scrapbook. It’s in her room.”

Tony nods again. Takes a sip of his Americano. Waits.

“I don’t know what type of flowers were her favorite,” Peter admits, head down and index finger circling the lid of his drink. “But I think... _those_ flowers were some of her favorites.”

“Well, yeah,” Tony says. “Because _you_ gave them to her.”

Peter’s eyes start to water.

“Hey, hey,” Tony’s voice is nothing but a soft, warm whisper. He sets his drink down before he plucks Peter’s out of his hands, too, setting it aside. Peter’s posture is starting to slouch and his breathing is becoming uneasy. Without hesitation, Tony reaches out and pulls Peter to him, one hand between the kid’s shoulders and the other planted on the back of his head.

Peter’s hands circle around him, fingers gripping the back of Tony’s shirt _tight._

“I got you,” he says. As Peter’s fingers curl and stretch in the fabric of his shirt, as he shakes with every shuddering breath, fighting what must be a well needed _sob,_ Tony stands as firm as he can. “I’m right here, buddy, I got you.”

Eventually, the grasping stops. His breathing slows. They sit down at the coffee table and finish their drinks.

They order tulips.

 

* * *

 

**December 6th, 2018**

Tony can hear the church choir practicing for their Christmas festival.

May’s funeral is a small affair, held at the same place as Ben’s. It’s the same church the three of them used to go once a year, around Christmas time, ironically enough. The church is old and small and damp with stained glass windows, looking like something out of Gothic France. There’s candles galore, wreaths over pews, poinsettias as far as the eyes can see, and he can hear the stupid church choir singing _Joy To the World,_ faintly, distantly, like actual angels looking over the procession. Tony doesn’t like it, but the kid doesn’t seem bothered.

There’s a rainbow of tulips on top of May’s casket, a vision of spring in the sea of winter, and Tony supposes that makes everything okay.

Peter delivers the eulogy. Tony watches with baited breath as the kid stands before the small group of friends with a suit that’s too big and a tie that Tony had to lend _and_ tie for him. He stares at a crumpled piece of paper, ripped hastily from a legal pad. Peter starts and stops half a dozen times before he shoves the paper back into his pocket with a sigh.

“I loved May more than she’ll ever know. And I’ll miss her that way, too.”

It’s all he says. Tony thinks it’s a good eulogy. Better than the one that he gave at his parents, anyway.       

The cemetery is as damp and dark as the church, but without any of the warm candles or lights. Snow crunches beneath their boots and the wind chaps their faces. When it’s all said and done, when May is lowered into the ground, Tony and Peter wait until all the others leave. The kid leaves the crumpled up note that he never read at her grave site underneath a heavy bouquet of flowers.

It’s not until they’re walking out does the permanence of their situation hit him. Tony’s been living day to day, walking on eggshells around the kid as he tries to make the best decisions for the both of them. But the funeral is over. The holidays are twinkling their cheer all around them. It’s time for the next step, whatever the hell that is.

For Tony, it’s a misstep.

Black ice. Quite the bitch, really. His nice dress shoes are no match for the slippery sidewalk outside of the cemetery. So while Tony is lost in thoughts, thinking about Peter and homes and Christmas and maybe a hot cup of coffee to ward off the chill, he fucking _slips,_ like a cartoon on a banana feel, and falls with a heavy thud straight on his back.

Peter stares.

Then, he laughs.

Tony’s momentarily stunned. He’s counting _stars_ and the kid’s _laughing._

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Peter apologizes, sounding downright _not sorry._ He’s covering his mouth with one hand, the other offered to Tony to help him up. “Are you okay?”

Tony ignores his hand, instead grabbing a handful of slush. He throws it in Peter’s face; it only makes the kid laugh harder. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

And when he moves his hand from his mouth,Tony sees the smile. Gleeful and bright and completely _Peter._ But then as he looks at Tony awhile longer, wiping snow from his face, the smile starts to slip. The sparkle in his eye dims.

Then, he cries.

Tony pulls him down on the sidewalk with him, one arm wrapped around him as the kid curls into his chest and _sobs._

 

* * *

 

**December 9th, 2018**

Peter’s basement storage is quite literally just Christmas boxes.

Well, that’s not entirely true. There’s an old bike that needs a new chain, as well as nice, waterproof containers labeled _Ben._ But the rest are Christmas boxes. Six, just like the note read. Tony doesn’t bother opening them to see what’s inside just yet. Instead, he picks up the two heaviest ones and places them in Happy’s arms.

“Why are we doing this? Surely we got some of this stuff back at your place.”

Tony picks up two more, and wonders if the kid _could_ carry all six with his agility and strength. “Well, I’ll be _here_ for Christmas, and these decorations are _here_ whereas my decorations are _there,_ so quit whining and start lugging.”

Happy snorts. “You’re coming back here just for Christmas?”

“I’m staying here _through_ Christmas.”

“What?” and Tony’s warning about not dropping the boxes goes in one ear and out the other. He scrambles to save them from smashing on the floor. “What do you mean you’re staying here through Christmas?”

“Maybe New Years, as well. Everyone kind of lumps those holidays together.”

“Tony.”

He sighs. “I can’t take the kid away from his house for Christmas. Not after….I just can’t.”

“Tony,” and this time Happy’s voice doesn’t have it’s normal edge to it. “He’ll have to leave, eventually. With you or someone else.” Tony ignores how his heart clenches at the thought of _someone else._ “Don’t you think lingering here will just make it harder?”

Tony’s thinks of his penthouse. White walls. Ugly Rothkos. Disobeying robots. A house, not a home.

“Nope,” he says with a pop of his lips. Happy gives him some look that borders on _pitying_ and Tony doesn’t like that shit at all. “You don’t look like you’re struggling enough. Take a third box.”

They get all the decorations up to the apartment without waking Peter up. After the funeral, he’s kept to himself, shifting from his room to May’s room without much small talk, and Tony’s been sleeping on the couch for over a week now. They haven’t discussed leaving to go to Tony’s, which he’s grateful for. He’s kinda been hoping that he can just move about with his plan without _actually_ addressing the details of it with the kid. It’s not a difficult conversation _persay,_ but Tony doesn’t exactly have a back up plan if the kid disapproves. Sure, he’d take the kid back to the penthouse if that’s what he wanted. Hell, he’d take the kid to London. Seoul. Vienna, if that’s what he wanted.

It’s just there’s a difference between what Peter wants and what Peter _needs,_ a realization that Tony figures comes with the title of _parent_ that’s been shaking him to his core the last several days.

He thinks Peter needs to stay here. Which means Tony has to stay here.

Rhodey is already in the living room, laying out the clothes that he specifically asked for. He had tried telling Pepper what he wanted but she had grown frustrated with him when he described his favorite dress shirts as “Pearl, the pearl one. Not eggshell. Actually, throw the eggshell one out I don’t know why I have it.”

His friend has brought him none of the clothes he wanted, but definitely all of the ones he needs. He even brought the eggshell dress shirt, the cheeky bastard. It’s mostly a small collection of slacks, vintage t-shirts, and suit jackets. He’s also had the decency to remember his shaving kit, which is a good thing to have if he wanted to look like Tony Stark. But a week into growing out his beard he thinks that maybe not looking like Tony Stark is a good thing if he’s going to live in this run-down Queens apartment complex. He’s yet to decide.

“Where’s the kid?” Rhodey asks. His legs make the softest mechanical noises as he moves around, making sure all of Tony’s slacks are hung properly on the pants hangers. It’s not even his parents funeral this time around, and Rhodey is still trying to take care of him.

“Sleeping. Put that down,” he chides softly, waving him away. But Rhodey just takes to sorting out the couch instead, which Tony has covered in a spare sheet he found in the living room.

“Pepper cooked like a madwoman again last night,” Happy says, voice a bit too loud. But Tony doesn’t say anything. “Everything is in the fridge, she put heating instructions on each one. She said eat the lasagna tonight.”

Tony nods and collapses into the couch. The nice pile of folded t-shirts falls over the back and onto the floor, and the sheet on the cushions wrinkles. Rhodey sighs and gives up, taking a seat beside him.

“So,” Rhodey sighs, slapping his hands to both knees. He rubs his palms together and looks at the boxes he and Happy had set up in the corner. “Decorating. Where do we start?”

Tony has no idea what’s in the boxes, or what else he might need to have Happy haul over here after all. But he does know there’s one crucial thing missing.

“You think War Machine would mind going and getting a tree?”

 

* * *

 

**December 10th, 2018**

The next morning, Peter emerges from the bedroom, sleepy-eyed and still a bit dead to the world. At least, until he notices the tree in the corner. Tony’s posture tenses from his perch at the kitchen island as the kid stares at the tree like he’s not quite sure it’s even there.

“Why’s that here?” He points for emphasis. “I thought….we need to leave soon, right?”

Tony shrugs. “I thought we could stay a bit longer.” His fears eat away at him, make his blood pressure spike and his heart go haywire.

“You mean, like….through Christmas?”

He nods.

Peter doesn’t say anything for a long while. The kid simply stares at the tree, expression blank, before he finally wanders over to the corner of six stacked Christmas boxes. He opens one. Pulls out the lights. Plugs them in to make sure they still work. Sits on the floor. Untangles them. Then he stares. He stares at the lights for a long time, like he doesn’t know what the hell he’s supposed to do with them.

And in the end, he doesn’t do anything. He leaves them on the floor, still plugged in, and wanders back to his room to go back to sleep.

Tony doesn’t push it. He simply makes a sandwich for Peter to eat later and then spends the next hour trying to wrap the tree with the lights in a way that’s presentable.

The rest of the boxes stay untouched. But that’s okay.

One step at a time.

 

* * *

 

**December 13th, 2018**

Peter’s been gone all day.

Tony’s worried. That’s a given. For the last two weeks, the kid hasn’t left the apartment for more than fifteen minutes or so, but when Tony knocks on his door to tell him dinner’s ready, the kid’s gone. He checks his watch and notices that Karen’s activated. He desperately wants to track the kid and find out what he’s doing, but he resists. Karen will tell him if the kid gets hurt or needs help, and so far, it’s a silent night.

So Tony plays the part of a nervous parent and camps out on the couch that he’s made his bed. He calls Pepper for a bit, looks over some schematics for the new software update on StarkPhones, and watches Peter’s shows on his Netflix account. The hours tick by and it isn’t until two-thirty in the morning does Tony hear the soft click of the front door.

The kid’s technically on winter break, and he nor May ever discussed curfews for winter break, so Tony doesn’t really think a lecture is in store. So he watches in silence as Peter sheds his coat, hat, and scarf before putting his backpack with his suit in the ceiling in his bedroom.

“I saw a lady,” Peter says, voice muffled by the walls. “Closing up a bar. I’ve seen her around, she has purple hair and wears the coolest sneakers.” He wanders back in the living room, kicking his shoes off into the corner. “And she had on those huge soundproof headphones on her walk back to her place. Lives pretty far, too. You can’t hear anything that goes on with those things. That’s why I was so late.”

Tony rubs the bridge of his nose, trying to ignore the fear making flips of his stomach. “Spider-Man saves the day, huh? Was it a mugging? Did you get hurt?”

“No. Nothing happened. She was perfectly fine.” Peter sits down with a heavy sigh next to Tony. “But I just wanted to make sure she got home, safe and sound.” He smiles faintly.

Tony can't help but smile back. "Looking out for the little guy, huh."

“Whenever I can. Anyway,” he looks over and gives Tony a sheepish look. “I’m sorry if I worried you.”

He shrugs. “You’re home now.”

“Yeah,” he looks around, eyes catching nothing in particular, until he looks at the tree, the lights he untangled wrapped around the branches. “I am.”

The both fall asleep on the couch that night.

 

* * *

 

**December 16th, 2018**

“Stark.”

“Don’t say it. _”_

She looks down at his sad decorating attempt and _says it_. “Aren’t you an engineer? Shouldn’t you have a steadier hand? Gimme.”

Reluctantly, Tony hands the piping bag of red icing over to Michelle, who finishes piping the fairy-light shaped gingerbread cookies that the kids had whipped up once they got here. Unlike them, Tony had started first thing in the morning to give the sugar cookies time to chill, and then he worked on some peppermint macaroons, which did _not_ turn out as the ones he’s seen on Peter’s baking shows. When those didn’t work, he tried snickerdoodles (burned), then he tried chocolate chip cookies (less burned, but equally terrible), and then when he spent enough time wallowing in the fact that he was one of the world’s most renown minds and yet couldn’t bake worth a damn, that’s when he called Ned and Michelle.

They agreed to come over before Tony even spared a detail.

Michelle immediately took over, throwing away Tony’s sugar cookies without even tasting the batter. Ned had bags full of what would be the gingerbread ingredients, declaring that they were going to make a gingerbread house.

Tony has never made a gingerbread house in his life.

Which brings them to now. Ned has him wrapped up in some silly old apron and talks his ear off while he explains the mechanics of icing as glue and gumdrops as shingles and _honestly,_ Tony went to MIT. He knows how to build a house. But cookie ones are a little harder for whatever reason, so he lets Ned play Paul Hollywood as Michelle finishes the light-shaped cookies with a flourish, moving on to prep for the sweater-shaped ones.

“You can work on the Wookiees,” Ned says, picking up Tony’s hand and dropping it over the tray of vaguely person-shaped gingerbread cookies. Beside them are two small bags of chocolate, one white and one dark.  “Just do it like the picture. Shouldn’t be so hard.”

He’s not being condescending, Tony realizes, as he looks up the picture on the StarkPad. It does look pretty simple. Stripes and dots. He can do stripes and dots.

Michelle reaches over one last time to make sure the piping bags are good before she places the dark chocolate one back in his hand and gets back to her own set of cookies. Tony is momentarily lost in the swiftness and precision that she uses to make small details like snowflakes and plaid and even words like _Joy_ across the chest. It reminds him of the same precision it takes Peter when he works on a circuit board.

The first Wookiee….doesn’t turn out so well. Ned laughs at him while Michelle simply picks it up and bites his head off, demanding he start again. The second attempt is passable, and the third looks just like the picture, if Tony’s being honest, and he thinks that maybe he’s finally gotten a hang of this whole baking thing after all.

He’s halfway done when Ned reminds him, “Save some for Peter to do.”

Tony glances up at the little clock on the wall in the kitchen. 10:23PM.  He’s been gone all day, just as he has been the past few days, doing whatever it is a spider does. Karen keeps him updated on major injuries, and so far, there’s been none. But Tony’s gotten...nosy. Earlier he had looked through the logs on his vitals and has found that Peter’s normal heart rate spikes when he’s swinging aren’t there. He’s been calm. His web fluid has hardly been used. There are no news reports or tweets concerning Spider-Man sightings. Tony’s beginning to wonder if the kid’s just….sitting on some rooftop in the suit.

But Peter comes back, like he has the last few nights. The surprise of his friends in the apartment is evident on his face, even when Ned walks over and collects Peter into a great big bear hug.

“Hey, man,” Peter chokes out, mouth buried in Ned’s shoulder. “Sorry I haven’t-”

“It’s okay.”

Tony vaguely remembers Ned and Michelle at May’s funeral. He had spent so much time making sure everything had been prepared and that Peter was alright that he hadn’t given those two the time of day. Hell, he hasn’t heard anything from or about them until he called them this afternoon.

But judging how tightly Ned hugs Peter, Tony thinks it’s not for lack of trying.

“What’s all this?” Peter asks softly when he finally pulls away, heading behind the kitchen island to stand beside Michelle. He’s a few inches shorter so his hair brushes against her cheeks as he wraps an arm around her waist, giving her a half hug.

“Christmas cookies.” She shifts her weight, discreetly leaning into Peter’s touch. “Stark was fumbling so he called us in for backup.”

Peter’s eyes snap his way, and he takes in the full sight: Tony Stark covered in flour and icing, with a frilly apron to top it all off. His lips slant into a shadow of a smile and he detaches himself from Michelle to stand by Tony. His hand play with the pink frills on the edges of the apron, and suddenly Tony feels guilty wearing something of May’s.

“Sorry,” he’s quick to apologize. “I didn’t think-”

“She never liked that one,” Peter admits, that faint smile still there. “She’d definitely get a kick out of you wearing it.”

Tony relaxes. “Well, pink _is_ my color.”

“I once heard you say every color is your color.”

“Right; and pink is a color.”

Peter’s smile broadens, just for a moment, before he looks down at the cookies spread out before them. “Are these….are you making Bigfoot cookies?”

“Shit.” Tony really thought he was getting the hang of this whole baking thing.

Ned groans. “No! Peter, they’re-”

Peter lights up, a proper smile this time, and catches up. “Oh! Chewbaccas! That’s so cool!”

“They’re gonna guard the gingerbread house. Well.” Ned sighs as he tries to line up the walls of the house _just right._ “Once this thing is built.”

“Here, here, let me help,” Peter says, squeezing himself against the corner. As he reaches out for the pieces of the house, the coat he never hung up brushes into stray icing. “There’s a trick, you gotta use white chocolate…”

Tony more or less resigns to watching the kids decorate the rest of the cookies. He makes the rest of the Wookiees (plus one dressed like Han Solo, just because. Peter says it looks awful, and Michelle bites the head off that one, too) while Michelle, Ned, and Peter focus on building the gingerbread house. It turns out pretty damn well, Michelle declaring it a castle when she makes a little flag for it to go on top, and Ned trusts Tony to be able to set up the Chewbacca guard in the front yard.

By the time the kitchen is trashed and the cookies are finished, Tony is exhausted.

Without much thought, he shoos the three children over to the couch so he can clean. Peter finally sheds his coat as he crawls underneath the blankets with his friends. And because apparently hours of baking isn’t enough baking for one day, the kids put on a show called _Nailed It_ which feels like a mockery to Tony’s skills, if he thinks too much on it.

By the time the kitchen is clean, the three of them are asleep.

Or so he thinks.

“He’s watching.”

Tony pauses, blanket in hand as he hovers over Peter. The kid’s squished in the middle, his feet in Ned’s lap, and the rest of him laying against Michelle; the back of his head is right on her sternum. He was about to tuck them all in when the girl spoke up.

“Who, Santa Claus?” Tony whispers, clearly not following. He decides to tuck them in anyway, wrapping one large edge of the blanket up around Ned’s shoulders. “You telling me I better watch out?”

Michelle just flickers her eyes down to Peter. “He’s not looking for a fight. He’s just watching. Finds a perch high up in the city and _looks._ For hours. He’s tired, I can tell. But I think he just wants to make sure everyone makes it home for Christmas.”

Peter mentioned she was observant; he said her attention to detail is what made her such a good artist, and such a good friend. It’s how she figured out he was Spider-Man without him having to tell her.

“So…” Tony looks down at Peter’s sleeping face as he wraps the blanket around the two of them. He looks peaceful. “He’s out in the suit, not looking for a fight. He's just...watching?”

She nods, hand coming up to smooth some of Peter’s hair back. “Yeah. He...loves Queens. I thought you should know that.”

He does know that.

He just doesn’t know why she feels the need to remind him.

 

* * *

 

**December 17th, 2018**

“Mr. Stark. Wake up.”

Tony comes to with a jolt and hits his head on the ceiling. His first thought is _what the fuck_ because why would he hit his head on the _ceiling_ he’s not _Peter_ but then he remembers that after the kids all fell asleep on the couch that is his bed, he fell into a _pickle._ He didn’t want to sleep in May’s bed and he didn’t want to sleep in _Peter’s_ bed, which just left the uncovered mattress on the top bunk in Peter’s room. He had been so tired he didn’t even bother to move the storage boxes aside from the bare minimum before he conked out.

“What are you doing up there?” Peter asks, voice soft but clearly amused. Tony groans and tries to rub the sleep from his eyes as he leans over the bed frame to greet a freshly showered Peter in a dorky Christmas sweater. His hair is still damp and there’s snow in his hair, as well as a cup of coffee - red, Americano, _For Tony, -_ in his hands.

“You kiddies stole my bed,” and he gestures for Peter to hand up the coffee. He lets out a yawn before he downs half of it in one gulp. “I had to improvise.”

“My bed is _right there.”_

“When was the last time you changed your sheets?”

He laughs a little, but doesn’t answer. “May’s bed is down the hall.”

Tony tenses. “I’m not gonna sleep in May’s bed.”

“She doesn’t use it anymore. It’s okay.”

There’s no anger or bite in his words - he states it like a simple fact. When Tony dares to look away from his coffee and back at the kid, he finds no signs of a breakdown. He still looks content and put together. Like nothing is even wrong.

“Anyway,” Peter goes on to say. “I made breakfast.”

Tony squints. “Cinnamon raisin bread?”

“Yep.”

“ _Yippee,”_ he declares, and moves to get off the top bunk. “Go. Scram. I’m not gonna let you watch me try to get down from this thing.”

Peter reaches out, for his hand or the coffee cup he isn’t sure, but Tony waves him off anyhow. “I can help?”

“No. Go. Start picking out the raisins in mine.”

He leaves without another argument, which is good, because Tony loses his footing on Peter’s desk and nearly _dies._ But the coffee is safe. It’s pretty much gone and he’s already dreaming of another cup by the time he makes it to the living room to find that Peter is, in fact, picking out the raisins in his toast and making a _mess._

“I was kidding about the raisins.”

Peter pays no mind and finishes picking out the raisins best he can before he passes the plate over. There’s an open container of peanut butter with a used knife over it; Tony swipes it and accepts his disgusting breakfast, covering the crumbly mess in chunky peanut butter and all but shoving it in his mouth.

As Peter eats his breakfast much more slowly, Tony notes that the other Christmas boxes are still unopened. There’s a stray mitten on one of them, Ned’s, if Tony remembers correctly, as well as Michelle’s hat.

“Hey, Pete.”

“Yeah?”

“You want to put up the rest of the decorations?”

Peter sets down a half-eaten piece of toast and dusts his fingers of crumbs. He’s still chewing, mouth likely sticky from the peanut butter, and stares off at the boxes like it’s a challenging equation on one of his math tests.

Eventually, he takes a sip of orange juice to wash it all down and says, “Will you help?”

“Of course.”

“Okay.”

He leaves his toast abandoned on a paper towel on the coffee table before rummaging through the boxes. Tony helps Peter pull out a few wreaths, some garland, a couple of decorative pillows, more lights and of course, the stockings.

They aren’t particularly fancy, but they are definitely homemade. Each one is red with a different patterned fabric at the top; checkered plaid, a glittery maroon, white with little green mistletoes. The edges of each stocking are lined in a bright gold to match the golden embroidered names written down the stockings.

_May, Ben, Peter_

He holds Peter’s stocking in his hand.

“May spent _forever_ on those,” Peter sighs, pulling out her stocking from the box. He holds it with a care like it might crumble underneath his fingertips. “She borrowed our neighbors sewing machine and just….went for it. Took a few tries. I think Ben ended up doing the embroidery…”

Tony picks up Ben’s stocking, traces his name. “Did a good job.”

“I think so, too. Ooh, wait until you see the ornaments.”

There’s definitely a sparkle in Peter’s eye as he picks up the last box, the biggest of the bunch. “I don’t know...when they started this.” His voice is sort of lost as he digs out various ornaments of different shapes and sizes. They’re all elaborate and full of character, vintage and unique, and no two are alike. “I think my parents did it, too, because I vaguely remember the same sort of ornaments before I came to live here. But they’re cool, look.”

Peter places one in his hand with a fondness Tony hasn’t seen in a long time. “That one is one of my favorites.” It’s one of Santa’s elves, tiny and small, asleep on top of Santa’s massive mailbag, which is overflowing with letters. Upon a closer look, Tony sees the wear and tear that past holidays have caused. The paint on the letters is faded and one of the elves ears had broken at some point, put back together with a hot glue gun - backwards.

“A lot are like that,” Peter admits. “I broke three or four over the years. Mostly arms, since they’re so delicate.” He picks up another ornament, a mouse on a sled, and Tony can see the repairs. “But May and I always glued them back together. I never liked them any less.”

“They’re nice.” Tony hasn’t really seen many ornaments like these. His parents always threw up the traditional trees with gold and red color schemes, the same three or four round, sparkly ornaments recycled all the way up the tree. He finds he likes the variety that Parker’s multi-colored lights, small crooked tree, and wacky ornaments bring. It tells a story.

“You want to put up the first ornament?” Peter asks.

It’s a tradition that Tony can’t quite understand in significance, but he’s grateful for the opportunity. He nods, looking down at the box. “Which one?”

Peter smiles, pointing to the mailbag ornament in his hand. “That one.”

“But it’s your favorite.”

“I know.”

He puts it on the top.

They finish putting up the ornaments and the rest of the decorations, more or less in silence. For the first time in thirty years, Tony itches to put on _Christmas_ music, but he resists. Because for the first time since Tony started staying here, the silence doesn’t feel so _wrong._

Things are healing.

Peter lets him put the star on the top, too.

It’s nice.

 

* * *

 

**December 21st, 2018**

The power goes out.

It’s not just their apartment, it’s the whole block. Tony tries messing with the breakers, but it doesn’t work. This sort of thing never happens at his place or at Avengers tower because of his high tech, clean energy source, and it makes him want to march down to city hall and demand that they let him fix the whole damn city’s grid so this kind of stuff never happens. It’s dark, it’s cold, and he’s _bored._ He itches for something to do.

But then his phone buzzes and he can’t believe he ever thought he could be bored with Peter Parker in his life.

It’s an alert. From Karen.

Peter’s unconscious.

Truth be told, it’s not the first time he’s gotten that kind of alert. The kid gets knocked around a lot and even if he’s only out of it for like, _five seconds,_ and gets right back up, Karen’s programmed to alert him anyhow. Tony knows the drill. He gives the kid a few seconds if he needs it before he has FRIDAY patch him through. Peter’s always picked up eventually, usually with a quick, “Hi, yes, I took a hit, I’m okay Mr. Stark gotta go bye!” but sometimes with a slow “Ugh. Ow. Mr. Stark, that you?” and he has to sit there and listen to Peter’s whining as he goes through a rudimentary concussion test. But the kid’s always been just fine.

Only this time, he doesn’t pick up.

Tony tracks his location and finds he’s in an alleyway only two blocks from their apartment. He can’t seem to get his shoes on fast enough before he grabs his coat and a spare from the coat closet and runs out the door.

It’s the first time in weeks he’s thought about the Iron Man suit. He wishes he has it.

Luckily, no one has paid Spider-Man any mind in the alleyway. It’s late, almost midnight, and Peter is curled up in the dirty snow slush, arm bent awkwardly and most definitely still unconscious.

Tony slides beside him, ripping a hole in the knee of his pants, and immediately cradles the kid’s head in his lap. FRIDAY and Karen do some more scans of his vitals as Tony tries to stir Peter awake, tapping on the cheek with a cold palm. “Kid. Kid, c’mon wake up.”

Peter stirs pretty quickly. “Ugh. Ow. Mr. Stark, that you?” Just like always.

“Yeah, kid. It’s me.”

He reaches up and yanks the mask off. There’s no massive abrasion or black eye on Peter’s face, but he winces when Tony adjusts his hand against the back of his head. He feels around for an open wound, but all he feels is a bump.

“What happened?” he asks.

“Got in a fight,” Peter grits through his teeth as he tries to sit up. Tony’s quick to wrap him in the spare coat. “Well, I stopped a fight. A mugging. Webbed them up but, man....dude clocked me real good before I did it. I was a little dizzy, but I thought I could still swing.” He winces again. “Saw some spots and missed the target. Fell and hit my head. I’m okay.”

Tony believes him. He wouldn’t have been able to recall what happened so quickly if he hadn’t. But. “You don’t usually stay down for so long.”

Peter’s eyes widen as he looks around the alley. “How long was I down?”

“Five minutes.”

“That’s not so long,” he hums, and Tony clicks his tongue in disagreement. “How’d you get here so fast?”

“I ran. We’re only two blocks from home.”

_Home._

Tony’s brain short-circuits a little at his wording as he helps Peter to his feet, sticking the kid’s arms through the sleeves of the long, evergreen colored coat. Peter stumbles, but just once, before he reaches for the wool sash. “This is May’s.”

He realizes that, now. There’s gold stitching in the collar, big turquoise cuffs with floral embroidery, and mismatched, colorful buttons. May’s.

“I just grabbed one from the closet,” Tony grumbles, popping the collar and making sure the sash is tied tight. Luckily, the coat is long enough that people won’t really notice the Spider-Man suit. But he starts buttoning it for him, for precautionary measures. “Sorry.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Peter’s tone is puzzled as he stares down at Tony’s fingers that are pushing the buttons through. His chin is almost to his chest. “I just never noticed….tulips.”

“Huh?”

Peter reaches out and grabs Tony’s wrist, leaving him pinching the last button on the top of the coat between two fingers. “The buttons. They’re _tulips.”_

Tony isn’t entirely sure he’d have noticed if Peter hadn’t pointed it out. The tulips are simple and cartoon-y in shape, and they’re all different colors: pink, yellow, red, purple.

Peter’s eyes are still on the button, and his grip on Tony’s wrist is firm. “That’s the first thing she’d do when she bought me a new coat. Sew the buttons on tighter. There was nothing that annoyed her more than a missing button.”

With a soft sigh, Tony moves to thread his fingers through Peter’s hair, a comforting gesture as well as a cautionary one; his thumb smooths over a small cut near his temple, blood still fresh. He wipes it on his slacks. “Let’s get you home, bud.”

The walk back to the apartment is much slower and much colder than the run to the alley. Peter is glued to his side, arms wrapped around the crook of Tony’s elbow; he hopes it’s a _Peter is cold_ situation and not a _Peter has a concussion_ situation. Unfortunately, he’s pretty sure it’s both. The fact that the block is pitch dark from the blackout isn’t helping things either.

Peter collapses onto the couch as soon as he makes it inside. How he finds it in the dark, he’s not sure. Tony has some form of light; his watch has a built in flashlight, as well as his StarkPad, and he uses that to tiptoe around the living room. But once he makes it to the couch, watching Peter look out the window at what looks like a city that’s lit up somewhere far away, he turns it off in favor of seeing the reflections in Peter’s eyes.

He draws the blinds all the way up while Peter snuggles into the couch, Spider-Man suit and May Parker’s coat included, face pressed against a pillow. Tony doesn’t let him lay like that for long and comes to sit on the couch, picking up Peter’s head so he can sit, and then letting the kid use his lap as a pillow.

The house is dark and quiet. Tony feels the need to fill it with noise. “You’re out every day, bud.” He pats his arm. “A lot of nights, too.”

He can feel Peter tense. “Are you mad?”

“No.” He shakes his head. "Worried. I don’t think you’re sleeping enough.”

Peter doesn’t argue that point. “Yeah,” his breath comes out heavy and tired, just as he is. “You’re probably right. It’s just...”

There is it. Tony can _hear_ it in the kid’s voice. Peter’s been dealing with his grief better than he’s seen most people deal with it, and that’s because _he isn’t actually dealing with it._ Or at least, not in a healthy way. He hasn’t really talked about it.

But he can hear it in his voice. He wants to.

He remembers what Michelle said to him that night all the kids fell asleep on the couch. Remembers what Peter said about the girl with the purple hair and cool sneakers that danced on her walk home. Peter has a instinct to protect, and when it came to May, he wasn’t there in time to do just that.

It’s not an easy thing to accept.

Tony lays a hand on the kids head, thumb rubbing up and down against his scalp.  “You’re gonna burn out. You can’t save everyone, Pete.”

Peter _whimpers._

“I _know.”_ The kid’s voice breaks in his confession, shattering into different pieces: anger, sadness, defeat. “But it’s _Christmas._ I just…”

“Everyone should be home for Christmas.”

Peter nods, face crumpling. “I have to _try._ I’ll stay up all night to make sure everyone’s safe.”

“Aw, Pete…”

He’s trying so hard to keep himself from crying. His hands come to grip the front of May’s coat, thumbs pressing into the tulip buttons.

When he takes a deep breath, the dam breaks, a sob echoing off the walls.

“I miss her _so much.”_

“I know, kid. I can’t imagine.”

He doesn’t hide his tears anymore. Instead he looks up, eyes shining in the dark and reflecting the light from the buildings down the road that still have power. “When I lost Ben, I had her. That’s how I made it through. She’s was _everything._ I don’t know how to do this without her.”

Tony isn’t a stranger to grief, and yet he still doesn’t know how to handle it. Over the years he’s tried alcohol, work, self-isolation, but all that taught him was what _not_ to do. But his kid is crying and he’s in _pain_ and Tony doesn’t know what the right thing to say is so -

He starts with the truth.

“She changed the buttons.”

Peter sniffles, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “W-what?”

“The buttons,” he repeats, concentrating on making his voice warm, kind, a contrast to the cold stale air of the apartment. “I noticed they’re too big for the holes - they almost didn’t fit. She changed the buttons because she liked the tulips.”

Peter stops crying.

“You see?” Tony rakes his hand through Peter’s hair once more. “I think you knew her better than you thought.”

His shaky, timid smile makes Tony think he might be doing something right.

 

* * *

 

**December 22nd, 2018**

When Tony wakes up the power is back on, and the kid is gone.

They had fallen asleep on the couch; well, Peter hours before Tony, if he’s being honest. He distinctly remembers his arm feeling like pins and needles for hours before he drifted off as well because there was no way he was waking up the kid when he needed his sleep.

The apartment is much warmer, and Tony feels stuffed up and uncomfortable in the blankets he’s wrapped up in. There’s definitely an extra quilt that wasn’t there before.

He’s barely got his phone out of his pocket when Peter walks into the apartment. He’s wearing May’s tulip coat and he has a cup in his hand, just one. Red. Americano. Tony’s name scribbled on the side.

“Did you get anything?” he asks, rubbing a hand over his face while the other grips the coffee with a vice. “Did you go out just to get me _coffee?”_

Peter just smiles, stuffing his hands into the coat. Strangely, it’s a good look for him, that coat. “Hey, I’m still a little sleepy, I’m just gonna...” and he nods to the bedrooms down the hall.

“Okay.” Tony’s voice is still hoarse with sleep. “Let me know when you’re hungry and I’ll make you something to eat.”

The kid nods and scuttles off, the stupid small smile still on his face.

As Tony’s sipping on his coffee, he notices the lights on the tree are on. Peter must have turned them on before he left for whatever reason. It’s not unwarranted. The morning is dark and gloomy, and the light coming through the apartment is abysmal. The lights make the room feel warm in the same way the oven turned on did, the same way that the pictures on the wall make the space feel cluttered with history and _life_. The quiet isn’t so stifling, so foreign, so poisonous. The quiet is more like the pause between breaths. Steady. Absolute. Needed.

Tony doesn’t just like it. He loves it.

He pulls out his phone and makes a call.

 

_Hey, it’s Pepper. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you._

 

“Hey, honey. It’s me. Listen, I need a favor. Call me back.”

 

* * *

 

**December 24th 2018**

On Christmas Eve, Tony finds himself in the same old dinky little church that they had May’s funeral in. The place is still decked out in everything _Christmas:_ wreaths, lights, garlands. Only this time there’s candles lighting up the altar as well as strangers spread out here and there in the pews, making peace with... _whoever_ they believe in.

“I didn’t know you went to church,” Tony says after five minutes of Peter just sitting there, looking around.

“I don’t.” He shrugs. “I mean, I don’t normally. But May, Ben, and I always went for Christmas Eve. We always waited until after the service and then just…” Peter gestures to the pews around them. “Came here. It’s always so pretty and calm. We take the time to thank the world for what we have.”

Tony thinks of the year the kid’s had. The pros don’t exactly outweigh the cons.

And yet, the kid’s still here.

He joins Peter in closing his eyes.

 

* * *

 

When they get back to the apartment, Peter is definitely surprised that it’s not empty.

Tony helps the kid along, pushing him through the threshold and closing the door behind them. The air in the apartment is hot from the oven and all the people in it: Pepper, Rhodey, Happy, Ned, and Michelle. Peter’s dining set only sits four, and one of them has set up folding chair in between the already mismatched, creaky wooden ones. They’re gonna be elbow to elbow. Hell, Pepper’s going to have to sit on Tony’s lap. And probably Rhodey on Pepper’s.

But it’s worth the tight squeeze to see Peter’s face light up like the damn tree itself.

“What are all of you guys doing here?”

Pepper finishes pulling the last of the homemade bread rolls out of the oven, closing the door with her hip. “We thought we’d surprise you! Me and my family always did Christmas Eve dinner, and we had a blast. We weren’t sure what you normally do but...what do you think?”

Peter finally sheds his coat, settling into the warmth. “I love it. It smells so good! I had no idea you were such a good cook, Miss Potts.” He walks over to her and Tony gets the pleasure of watching Pepper’s shocked face when Peter presses a kiss to her cheek. “Thanks for all the food you’ve been making for us. It means...a lot to me.”

Pepper’s features soften, if that’s possible, and she cups Peter’s face with one hand; flour from her fingers dusts along his cheek and a little on his nose. “You’re welcome, sweetie.”

“Tony,” Rhodey pipes in. He’s trying to set a table that fits four for seven, and no amount of MIT schooling is gonna help him pull that off. “Why the hell do you live off Burger King and tuna fish sandwiches if Pepper can cook so well?” He sneaks a piece of meat off the turkey - well, he tries. Happy and Michelle both slap his hand away.

Tony puts his hands up, defensive. “I didn’t know she could cook.”

She shrugs. “I don’t normally have the time. Busy running a company.”

This time it’s his turn to give her a kiss on the cheek. “And you’re doing a wonderful job, baby.” He pauses, eyes flickering to Peter, and he waits for the kid to skedaddle across the living room to greet Ned and Michelle before he whispers, “Did you bring -”

Pepper, dressed head to toe in Chanel even when cooking, discreetly manages to slip an envelope out of her apron and into Tony’s jacket. She pats it for good measure. “Of course. Just like you asked,” and the third time’s the real charm when she kisses his cheek in return. “Let’s eat, shall we?”

It’s just like Tony predicted - they’re elbow to elbow, Pepper is more or less in his lap, and the air is so stuffy he’s _sweating._ Everyone piles their plates high with turkey, potatoes, veggies and bread. He’s mistake it for the likes of Thanksgiving if it weren’t for the Christmas sweaters, twinkling lights, and music playing in the background.

“Did you go to the church?” Ned asks, passing Peter his plate. Extra roasted potatoes, the kid’s favorite, line the edges of the Christmas china Pepper dragged all the way here.

“Uh, yeah,” Peter says, not looking at the bread basket he passes across the table to Happy. “Mr. Stark took me.”

“The old, little one, right? A few blocks south?” Michelle asks, licking her fingers of a square of butter before she puts yet _another_ square of butter on the tiny bread roll. “With the stained glass windows.”

“Yeah.”

Happy nods. “Been there. It’s real nice.” He looks up from his plate and gives Peter a rare smile. “Maybe next year I’ll join you. If that’s okay.”

“Me, too.” Rhodey says.

The room reverberates with similar sentiments, and Peter’s smile broadens with each one.

“Yeah,” he repeats, the word a little chokes. Tony sees him wipe at his eyes, but there’s no sadness there. “I think that’d be nice.”

The smile stays the whole meal.

 

* * *

 

**December 25th, 2018**

“Do you open presents on Christmas Eve?”

They’re finishing up cleaning the dishes, washing them by hand. Tony had kicked everyone out, Pepper included, about an hour ago, with promises to call them all in the morning and plan to do something then. As much as he wouldn’t have minded for all of them to stay, Tony still feel a bit out of place in Peter’s house. It’s not his say whether they stay or not. Plus, he has the couch, May’s bed is...May’s bed, despite what Peter says. Tony still sleeps on the couch. So he doubts Rhodey and Happy want to share the top bunk.

Peter slows in his drying, damp drying towel wrinkling in his hand. “Us, specifically? We did a few times. But always after midnight. That way, it was technically still Christmas morning.”

Tony nods, looking up at the clock hanging in the kitchen.

 

_12:14 AM_

 

“Well look at that. It’s morning. Merry Christmas,” he tells Peter, bumping the kid with his shoulder and gesturing to the clock. The kid looks back up at him, smile shy but pure.

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Stark.”

He shakes the suds off one of the last plates before he hands it over to Peter. “Hey, I, uh….I got you a gift. I know we didn’t talk about it but…”

“Wait, really?”

“Yeah, really.”

Peter looks away, grabbing the plate with a blind eye and drying it with haste. “I made you something, too. I was gonna put it on the tree for you to find in the morning, but, uh, if you want it _now…”_

Tony blinks in surprise. The kid getting him a gift didn’t even cross his mind. Why would he do that? He’s had more than enough on his plate these last few days.

The envelope feels heavy in his jacket pocket.

“Sure, kid.” Tony whispers. “Whatever you want.”

Peter is only gone for a few seconds. He returns from his bedroom but doesn’t come back to the sink - he goes straight to the couch. Tony sheds the silly apron and joins him, apprehension placing him the furthest away from Peter as possible on the other end of the couch.

The kid doesn’t let that stand. He scoots closer, clutching a small box in his hands. It doesn’t look much bigger than the ones that hold all the necklaces and earrings that he’s bought Pepper over the years, which stumps him even more. The kid got him a gift and he has no idea what it is.

“I’ve been working on some new web fluid the past few months,” Peter starts, messing with the box. It isn’t wrapped, and he keeps teasing the reveal by opening the top, just a hair. “I messed around with one formula and found something that’s more or less _permanent._ It’s flexible for a bit before it dries but after that...it’s just no good for Spider-Man. But…”

He opens the box and reveals an ornament.

“Makes pretty life-like snowflakes, huh?”

Peter’s not wrong. The snowflake is small and delicate looking, but sturdy in his hands as he picks it up and holds it to the dim lights of the apartment. He’s always known that no two snowflakes look alike, seen the evidence under microscopes, but this really drives it home. There’s no other ornament like this.

It’s one of a kind, just like Peter.

“Thank you,” Tony whispers. “Really. I love it.” He stands up and heads to the tree, trying to find the perfect spot. He ends up putting it right next to the little elf asleep on Santa’s mail. They look quite nice together. “Perfect. Best Christmas gift I’ve ever gotten.”

When he turns, he expects to find Peter still on the couch, but he’s followed him to stand beside the tree.

Without a word, the kid wraps an arm around him, pressing his nose into his sleeve.

“Pete,” he whispers, his free hand coming to smooth his hair back. Peter looks up at him with bright eyes. “Hey.” he smiles, shaky and nervous. Peter’s energy starts to match his in worry, and Tony hastens to push that away, continually smoothing his hair. “I’m gonna give you your gift. And I’m gonna make a whole sappy speech about it, too. So just listen, okay?”

Peter nods and leans back, allowing Tony to reach into his pocket and pull out the envelope that Pepper handed him at dinner hours earlier: nothing special, just some folded, brown clasp envelope donned in some of Pepper’s intricate ribbon, gold and sparkly.

He hands it over. His hand shakes.

The kid has a hard time sliding the tight ribbon off before he peeks inside, tentative, curious. He pulls out a stack of papers and scrunches his brow in confusion before he starts thumbing through them, trying to figure it out when Tony says -

“They’re adoption papers.”

Peter’s head snaps up, eyes wide.

“It’s all on your terms.” Tony forces himself to keep eye contact with Peter no matter how afraid he is because this is _important._ “You don’t have to fill them out. You can never fill them out. If this isn’t what you want, that’s fine with me. I mean it. Or, you we can do this now. Tomorrow. Three months from now. Three _years_ from now. Hell, you can be thirty years old with kids of your own and sign them then, if that’s what you want. I’ll still adopt you. I’ll still be your family. You’re never gonna be too old, okay? Please remember that. You’re not just a kid, you’re _my_ kid. You have been for awhile. And these papers are just a formality.”

Peter is speechless. Almost. “Mr. Stark - “

But Tony can’t stop now. “So it doesn’t matter if you don’t do this. I’m still in your corner. Whatever role you want me to have in your life, I’m there. But I think for now….while you’re still a kid. We make a good team. I hope you feel the same way. Which is why it’s not just adoption papers. It’s got other stuff too. I bought the apartment, Peter.”

His eyes go wider, if possible. “You...you did?”

“Yeah,” Tony nods. “Makes things easier. Especially if we’re gonna live here until you graduate high school.”

“Live...live _here?”_

Tony smiles. “What’s Queens without Spider-Man?”

Peter tackles him with a hug, sending them both sprawling on the couch.

“Thank you,” Peter’s voice is a harsh whisper as he presses his nose into his chest. The kid’s arms are wrapped tight around him, squeezing with just a lick of his super strength. Tony’s lungs are bruised, but he’s never felt better in so long. “Thank you, Thank you, _Thank you.”_

“Anything for you kid,” and he hugs him back, even tighter.

_We’re not there yet_ , he once said.

“I’m here.”

They are most certainly there.

 

* * *

 

**January 1st, 2019**

_“Happy New Year!”_

The television explodes with cheers and nonsensical noise as cameramen record half of New York kissing under the bright lights of Time Square. Tony isn’t a fan of the whole spectacle and has no problem turning the TV right off and going straight to sleep. He turns his head, expecting to bid Peter goodnight, only to find the kid isn’t there.

He’s standing by May’s door, a box in his hand.

“Kid?” he stands up, slowly making his way over. Peter relaxes a little when Tony puts a comforting hand on his shoulder, giving him a little shake. “What are you doing?”

He gestures to the box. “You need a place to sleep. You can’t sleep on that couch forever.”

Tony looks back at May’s room. It’s been untouched for a month. The glasses are still on the dresser, her night gown is still on the floor. The covers are all messed up from Peter’s frequent naps there. It’s….not his space. Not really. “I’m okay. Take all the time you need.”

Peter takes a deep breath, shoulders lifting with the motion. “No,” and he sags on the exhale. “I think I’m ready.”

So Tony watches as Peter fumbles around the room, trying to figure out where to start. He picks up the glasses only to set them down, messes with the jewelry only to not even pick it up, and makes the bed without changing the sheets. Eventually, he settles on the floor in front of May’s closet and starts to fold up her clothes. The silk nightgown from the floor is the first to go.

“You know,” Tony says, walking inside and settling on the bed. “I like the comforter. Coral is a nice color. Pepper likes it, too.”

Peter cranes his neck to look at him, gives a little smile. “Yeah?”

“Oh yeah,” he nods, looking around. “In fact, she would love the night stands as well. That antique vibe is all the rage. Also the pictures, do you think we can keep some of the pictures?” He stands up and picks up the photo of the wedding renewal. “I mean, we’ll have to add our own but little Peter Parker is too cute to pack up, don’t you think?”

The kid laughs, short and sweet, before he turns back around and starts going through all of May’s shoes.

“And let me know when you find those pressed tulips from the scrapbook,” he says, heading for the door. “I want to get those framed.”

There’s a pause and then a whispered, “Thanks, Tony.”

 

* * *

 

**January 9th, 2019**

“Kid! Hurry up, you’re gonna be late!”

Pepper rolls her eyes at the breakfast counter when a very loud crash echoes from Peter’s room before the kid stumbles out, one shoe on, the other in his hand. “I’m coming, I’m coming!”

He sits at the counter, wedged between Pepper and Rhodey, and works on getting his shoe on. He manages with one hand while the other hand reaches over and starts picking out all the pieces of honeydew in Rhodey’s fruit salad before Tony slides a plate of toast Peter’s way. Burnt. Just the way he likes it.

“Don’t forget, you’ve got to make up your physics final after school.”

Tony almost sees Peter roll his eyes. Almost. “I didn’t forget,” he says, mouth full and crumbs dropping from his mouth. “But make sure _you_ remember the PTA meeting tomorrow afternoon. It’s the first of the year. It’s important, since you’re new.”

“Well if it’s _that_ important, maybe I should just send Pepper.” She snorts into her coffee. “Just kidding. Will there be snacks for everyone?"

"I have no idea."

"Should I  _bring_ snacks for everyone?"

"If you want."

"Can I bring a pillow and take a nap if I get too bored?”

Peter shrugs. “I don’t see why not. Michelle does that for gym class. Surely same rules apply.”

As Peter hastens to grab his backpack, an entire piece of toast stuffed in his mouth, Tony slides him his lunch money across the counter. “I’m gonna be late coming home tonight, I’ve got to get a few more things back at the tower to finish installing FRIDAY in here, okay? And Pepper’s got a shareholders meeting, so Rhodey will be here when you get home.”

Peter takes the lunch money and pockets it. “I mean, that’s fine. But I’ll probably be patrolling so I won’t be home until -”

“Eight-thirty.”

He slouches. “ - ugh, eight-thirty?”

“Just for tonight. Your physics test is gonna be a bitch. You’ll thank me later.”

Peter winces before his face relaxes, accepting defeat. “You’re not wrong. Okay, deal.” He looks at Rhodey, flashing him his best smile. “Can we order Thai for late-night dinner?”

Rhodey laughs, tipping his coffee cup his way. “Sounds good to me, Pete.”

All of a sudden Peter flinches just as Tony hears a very, very faint honking of a horn. “Uh-oh,” Tony sing-songs. “Someone’s keeping Happy waiting.”

“I’m leaving, I’m leaving!” Peter rushes over and gives Pepper a kiss on the cheek. He flashes Rhodey a pair of finger guns, which he returns, before he rams into Tony, giving him a quick hug.

“Bye, Tony,” he whispers. “Love you.”

He ruffles the kid’s hair. “Love you, too, squirt. Good luck on your test, okay?”

Peter nods, giving each one of them a lingering glance before the car horn goes off again and Peter’s off again.

Rhodey’s already laughing as soon as the door shuts behind him. “I can’t believe you traded your labs and penthouses for hand-washing your dishes and PTA meetings.”

Tony shrugs, dumping his coffee mug into the sink. “I still have my labs and my penthouse. I just commute to work now.”

Pepper snorts, again. “ _I_ commute to work. You _fly._ I want a suit.” She points to Rhodey. “He got a suit. He got _legs.”_

He kicks her with said legs, just a little.

“I’ll make you a suit, baby. Whatever you want.” He brightens. “Or! I can just fly you over myself.”

She laughs, waving him off, before she shakes her mug a him. “Nah. Can you imagine the helmet hair? I’ll settle for another cup of coffee, please.”

As he’s pouring the coffee, Rhodey looks around, taking note of the slight construction that’s been needed to install his AI. Aside from that everything’s still the same: same dinky table, same wonky microwave, same pictures on the wall. “You really like living here, huh?”

Tony’s eyes fall onto one particular photo on the wall. It’s new, hanging next to the TV in the living room. It’s a snapshot of Peter and Tony at the Christmas Eve dinner. He doesn’t remember when it was taken, but somehow they’re both laughing.

They’re both _happy._

“Yeah,” Tony whispers. “I really do.”

 

* * *

 

__ **December 1st, 2019**

Tony comes home to find a giant manila folder stuck to the fridge, a lime green sticky note on top.

 

_You misplaced the storage key AGAIN, like I said you would. I can’t believe I have to do everything. Anyway, it’s in the folder. Six boxes. SIX. Have Happy help you carry them up. I don’t want to come back from my study session to hear about your achy back because you tried to carry them all up yourself. For every ornament you break, you owe Rhodey a hundred dollars_

_ <3 Peter _

_PS: Merry Christmas, Dad_

 

He can’t rip open the folder fast enough. The storage key falls to the ground in his haste.

It’s the adoption papers. They’re all filled out, a hearing date already selected. Peter's signature practically glitters on the page.

Tony smiles.

Merry Christmas indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> she's :) done :) *tony stark voice* yay. went ahead and posted it because I WILL NOT stop picking at it and the more I look at it the more I hate it but it's too late to turn back now so just take it. take it. I had fun writing it so that's all that matters I guess
> 
> thanks so much to everyone who has commented, left kudos, and just overall read all the fics in this series. I haven't written so much in a long time and the response has been so good!!! I feel all warm and fuzzy. I've made some new friends too. how very very nice. this fic is for all of you, like it is each time :)
> 
> but i specifically dedicated this last one to iron_spider because I...uh lov e their fics. 5 times peter got stuck with tony is.....the Crown Jewel of this fandom. ANYWAY but im dedicating it to them because 1) the spirit of christmas 2) iron_spider's birthday 3) no one has gifted them a fic in this fandom yet and that....just won't stand even though 4) I don't think they'll read this bc it's probably not their cup of tea but that's okay!!!! my love for one of my fave fic writers knows no bounds so!!!!! before I chicken out!!! here she is.
> 
> merry christmas and a happy, happy new year to everyone. all the best. see you in 2019 :)


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